


wham bam

by Eremji (handsfullofdust)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (Jaskier is Into It), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon-Divergent: Post S01E05 Bottled Appetites, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Happy Ending, Hard Fucking Soft Emotions, Light Angst, M/M, Public Humiliation, Rimming, public spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22325320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handsfullofdust/pseuds/Eremji
Summary: Jaskier's propensity for romancing the wrong person occasionally gets them into trouble.Geralt, as usual, has to get them out of it. Very publicly. And maybe he likes it just a little too much.It’s a bit hypocritical, Geralt thinks, to plead for logic and reason when Jaskier has proven yet again he has possession of neither in great quantity.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 89
Kudos: 1463





	wham bam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sablier_bloque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sablier_bloque/gifts).



> Primarily based on Netflix canon, though I am borrowing from game/book canon where I find it useful. Set not long after E5.
> 
> My deepest gratitude to [sablier_bloque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sablier_bloque/profile), who did me the honor of beta reading my first ever attempt at writing spanking _and_ to everyone in the group chat that was involved in cheering this madness on.
> 
> Catch me on Twitter [@Eremji](https://twitter.com/Eremji) and Tumblr at [Eremji]()

“Ah, if everyone would just take a moment to think before someone does something in haste that they might regret,” Jaskier says, trying in vain to duck beneath the sword pointed at him, only to find three more waiting just behind it.

It’s a bit hypocritical, Geralt thinks, to plead for logic and reason when Jaskier has proven yet again he has possession of neither in great quantity. Geralt feels the bigger fool, because he’s been certain Jaskier was trouble from the moment Jaskier noticed him, years ago, and yet here he is.

If only Jaskier had listened to Geralt and not insisted on trying to sneak them out through the maze of servant’s quarters, they might already be out of the manor house and not cornered like common thieves.

The tallest guard, who appears to be the only one lacking the good sense to point a weapon at Geralt in the first place, seems to be strongly considering dropping it and fleeing. But Geralt, as much as he’s tempted, won’t leave Jaskier to the ungentle mercies of whichever local lordling caught Jaskier with his pants down, no matter how Jaskier probably deserves it.

“Do you think,” Geralt growls, “that if you’re going to fuck your way through every married lady in Vizima, you could at least do me the favor of not getting caught?”

“Not a lady,” Jaskier says cheerily.

“What?” Geralt asks, craning his neck to look at Jaskier over the guards’ heads.

“Not a lady,” Jaskier repeats slowly, as if Geralt’s a bit dense. Then, with renewed zest, he clarifies, “Some nobleman’s son. However, his lady intended is threatening to call off the wedding. Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me. Every bachelor should get up to a little buggery before he’s tied down —”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts, “do you think it’s wise to admit to your crimes in front of witnesses?” Especially a group of jumpy men with swords, most of them so young they’re barely more than boys.

Jaskier’s face does something complicated, trapped between outrage and confusion. “Buggery is perfectly legal in Vizima. Geralt, I didn’t think you were so narrow-minded —”

“I’m not,” Geralt snaps, before he thinks better, because the whole conversation is an exercise in foolishness. One of the guards near Geralt makes a shushing noise and Geralt growls back at him – mostly because it’s Jaskier in need of quieting, not because he wants to continue entertaining Jaskier’s accusations.

“You fucking mealy little bastard,” a man calls from the doorway to the dining hall when it slams open. The guards part to let him past and it becomes apparent from the relative state of apoplexy the man is in that he must be the father of Jaskier’s latest conquest.

Geralt is one part relieved to get on with it, because he’s been trapped in a ridiculous brocade getup Jaskier foisted upon him for the better part of an hour, and two parts full of suspicious dread that he’ll have to bare steel to get them out of this ridiculous predicament.

Jaskier very carefully prods at one of the brandished weapons with a fingertip. “Ah, good, you’re here. Do you think you could ask your guards to step away so I might make a proper introduc —”

“Do you even know who I am, boy?” the man asks. He couldn’t be any more threatening even if he were the one holding a sword to Jaskier’s balls and Geralt needs no introduction to recognize him as one of Foltest’s cousins, their resemblance uncanny in profile. “You’ve ruined everything because you couldn’t keep your twice-poxed cock in your pants.”

No would be the wrong answer. Even Geralt understands that. But Jaskier insists on muddling further into the murky political waters he’s already barely treading by saying, “Ah, no, actually.”

“I’m the bloody Duke of Maribor, you careless little bastard,” the man says, “and you’ve cost me five hundred head of cattle because you couldn’t stay off your back.”

“Ah, forgive me, my lordship —” Jaskier looks to Geralt and mouths _help me out_ so unsubtly that Geralt could do no more for him if he even wished to “— uhh, Duke Jurkast?”

Jurkast’s deepening glower only signifies Jaskier is both correct and also not impressing anyone.

“You bedded the Duke of Maribor’s son?” Geralt hisses at him. It isn’t as though it’s a great secret that the heir to the Mariborian duchy is to be wed in a fortnight, and that his lady intended is notoriously romantic. Even Geralt has been unable to avoid the gossip. Jaskier swooping in to steal her prize lordling a few weeks before she’s wed would be an unthinkable blow to her pride.

“Well, he bedded me,” Jaskier says meaningfully, with one eyebrow cocked. He winks.

Geralt steadfastly decides he won’t think on that at all and turns to Jurkast with every intention of apologizing for Jaskier’s idiotic behavior, just to get out of earshot and never have to speak about it again. “Your grace —”

“Don’t your grace me, Witcher,” Jurkast says, scowling in his direction. “I know you, Geralt of Rivia. The only reason I haven’t put you to sword yet is because Foltest would have my head for it, but don’t press me.”

“Excuse me,” Jaskier interrupts, because, Geralt thinks, either he has a death wish or some unrelenting need to always be the center of attention. “I hate to interrupt, but would an earnest apology suffice to settle the matter, or must we spend the night jailed? This is the first we’ve been in society for a fortnight and I’ve a standing appointment with a tailor –”

“I should have you beaten instead,” Jurkast says low and angry and Jaskier swallows audibly. Geralt knows from his tone Jurkast means to have more than an apology; Foltest’s line runs hot-blooded with long memories and his cousin is no exception. “Take the price of the cattle out of your worthless hide.”

“Right, but what legal standing would you have?” Jaskier asks, finally looking as though he’s facing down a bear at twenty paces. All sense is flung out the window when he carries on with, “Taking a man and flinging him in the dungeons is the stuff of tyrants –”

Jurkast bellows, “I’m the bloody Duke of Maribor, you little weasel. Not a man in my service would raise a finger to stop me if I strangled you in the market square with my lady wife’s bed drapes.”

“Would that be an acceptable punishment?” Geralt interrupts, before Jaskier can dig himself a grave any deeper than the one he’s already merrily wallowing in. “A flogging.”

“I didn’t think pandering was your brand of problem-solving, Witcher.” Jurkast gives him a shrewd once-over. “Or are you just eager not to be fed gruel for a month alongside your little friend?”

“What – a month for having some fun? I’ll take the flogging, thanks very much,” Jaskier says. “Are you just into watching that sort of thing – or do you want to paddle me yourself?”

“One of my lads would do just fine, if you won’t stomach your friend wielding the lash,” Jurkast says. “Thirty –” Jaskier visibly pales “– ought to be enough of a reminder to keep your hands to yourself. It’ll take me months to quell the wildfire that foolish harpy has unleashed and find a new arrangement for that empty-headed boy.”

“Thirty lashes would maim him,” Geralt says, pushing past the guards surrounding him, brow furrowed stormily. They let him go, but the knot of them around Jaskier bristles defensively.

Jurkast quirks one eyebrow. “Shall you beat him as a boy, then? Bare-assed and crying over your knee in front of us all? Do it yourself then, Witcher, if you don’t trust my men to take his delicate hide to task.”

Geralt doesn’t have to look to know that Jaskier is wearing an expression like he’s bitten into a lemon. The idea of letting Jurkast’s guards whip Jaskier for a night of dalliance leaves him ill at ease, but doing it himself is only vaguely more palatable.

The lesser of two evils. May it all be damned. Nothing in Geralt’s training has prepared him for this.

He avoids looking at Jaskier. A sense of tense anticipation settles over him like a mantle. Jurkast is still looking at Geralt, Jaskier ignored but not forgotten.

“Have one of your men fetch me a chair and you’ll have your recompense,” Geralt says before the offer can be retracted. This is the best they’ll manage with a ruined political maneuver working against them.

“Excuse me. Geralt – Geralt, would you tell me – what are you doing?” Jaskier demands. “I can handle this myself. You needn’t further implicate yourself.”

“Clearly I’m already implicated. Do you want to rot in some stinking oubliette with nothing but rats for company?” Geralt hisses back. “Or worse yet – me alongside you?”

Two chairs are dragged across the dining hall: one so that Geralt might play taskmaster and the other that Jurkast might supervise. It’s a setup designed to humiliate Jaskier as much as Jaskier has humiliated Jurkast, but it’s Geralt who suddenly finds himself unable to meet the eyes of anyone at all.

“Bend the boy over your knee, Witcher,” Jurkast says. “Hand or belt, your choice, but don’t stay your strike to spoil the brat or I’ll make you start your count again.”

Jaskier, encouraged by the point of a sword, hitches his pants down to expose his bare ass and slings himself over Geralt’s lap. He’s muttering unhappy insults from where he dangles over Geralt’s knees but cooperates well enough. His weight is not burdensome, but Geralt places a quelling hand on his lower back, thumb at the base of his spine, to keep him from sliding off.

“Get on with it then,” Jurkast snaps, “or it’ll be off to a cold cell for both of you.”

“Be still. I don’t want to miss,” Geralt commands, entirely for Jaskier’s benefit. Jaskier shudders under his palm and the worst of it hasn’t even befallen him yet.

Geralt undoes the buckle on his belt and tugs it from the loops of his pants – thank whatever god is listening for Viziman fashion lending towards utility over frippery, lest he need do this bare-handed. Jaskier tenses when he doubles the supple leather onto itself and drapes it over the thickest muscle and meat of Jaskier’s bare ass.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier whispers, a faint edge of anxiety to his voice. He’s beginning to sweat through his clothes and Geralt can smell him so strongly, his perfumed powder and the faint, heady undertones of his sex.

He places his hand on one bare cheek. Low, just to Jaskier, Geralt says, “I’ll strike here, first. And then the other. Count them for me, out loud, so the duke might be satisfied.”

The belt raises, lowers, a swift, precise crack that echoes from one corner of the room to the other. At first, nothing happens, and then Jaskier gives a shaky call of, “One,” sounding exactly as though he’s been punched in the gut.

Before Jaskier has time to feel the shock of the hit, Geralt’s swings again.

“Count,” he growls, and Jaskier barks, “Two!” on command, and then makes a low, pained noise. He’s heard Jaskier complain more readily at a stubbed toe or a briar prick, so the soft noise worries Geralt enough to give him a moment’s pause.

But the Duke of Maribor is unused to being disobeyed and clucks disapprovingly at the delay. Jaskier’s ass is reddening already, two bright pink stripes, and Geralt thinks _I put those there_ before bringing his arm down a third time.

The sound that Jaskier makes sends strange anticipation skittering up Geralt’s spine.

“Three,” Jaskier says, softer this time, voice thick and strange. Geralt hesitates, registering that Jaskier has his hand wrapped around Geralt’s ankle, nails digging furrows into the selfsame butter-soft leather boots Jaskier foisted upon Geralt only hours before he was dragged into this little fiasco.

“No stomach for it, Witcher?” Jurkast taunts. “Never thought after all the balls you showed when Foltest tried to punt you out that you’d be a light touch when it came to giving a man his just desserts.”

“Get on with it,” Jaskier says, too low for the Duke and his men to hear. “If I must endure this, I’d rather it be you than one of these brutes.”

“Keep counting, then,” Geralt says. Four, five, and six come in rapid succession and leave Jaskier breathless. He gives Jaskier as much time as he dares between seven —

— and then seven becomes nine and nine becomes thirteen, and Jaskier is making little sobbing noises and Geralt’s foot is going numb from how tightly Jaskier is clutching him. Geralt’s grip on the belt is slippery with his own sweat, more nerves than exertion.

Between the fifteenth and sixteenth kiss of the belt, he forgets himself and caresses the angry red curve of Jaskier’s ass. “Geralt — oh —” that sound, that sound, and real heat fills Geralt, starting at his scalp and washing down over him like a great wave, “Geralt — please — sixteen!”

He presses his thumb into Jaskier’s exposed flesh, so red, all his doing. Presses it just there, just enough to expose his tenderest of places, the tight hole behind Jaskier’s heavy balls. It would be easy, so easy, to wet his rosy skin and press a finger inside, to flog Jaskier with Jaskier stretched just so around the knuckle of his thumb.

Geralt is nearly dizzy with it. Jaskier makes a sound that’s not entirely pain and shifts his hips, making it plainly apparent that Jaskier is rock hard and hot through his barely-clinging smallclothes, and it would be the simplest act of mercy to let Jaskier free himself and rut to completion between Geralt’s thighs.

“Seventeen,” Jaskier cries, because Geralt is not there to provide mercy, and it was Jaskier’s cock that got them into this in the first place. Geralt can no longer ascertain whether Jaskier’s breathy little gasps are pleasure or pain — or if it even makes a difference.

By the time he makes it to twenty-five, Jaskier’s ass is a deep, rosy red and Geralt can no longer make out each stripe from the belt. Jaskier has gone limp, counting out each impact with unfocused fervor. Most of the guards have turned their faces away, and even Jurkast himself seems to have become discomfited by the display.

Jaskier says nothing for a moment, until Geralt squeezes him in reminder. “Fuck. Twenty – oh dear gods above and below, Geralt, twenty-five, I –”

Geralt raises his arm and Jurkast says, “Enough!” surging to his feet. “Give us the room.”

The belt slides from Geralt’s fingers and he draws a ragged breath as Jurkast standing, willing in vain that his own erection subside lest Jurkast make a further spectacle of them.

“Are you satisfied, your grace?” Geralt asks through gritted teeth as the room empties of red-faced guards. The stink of their discomfort clears with them, and Geralt slowly relaxes, bracing Jaskier’s limp body over his thighs so he does not slide to the floor.

Jurkast lingers for a moment, staring at them with hard anger in his eyes. His expression softens minutely — to shame or empathy, Geralt knows not which — before he looks away. “Consider the matter settled. I’ll leave you the room, to care for your friend, but be gone within the hour or you may yet see the inside of a cell.”

As soon as he’s gone, Jaskier scrambles to his feet, staggering with a pained noise. Like this, Geralt can see everything — his sweating brow, his red face, his painfully hard cock. If they weren’t just banished from the grounds of the keep, Geralt might —

Geralt might —

No, he —

“Let me help you,” Geralt says gently, reaching for his arm as Geralt stands. Jaskier leans against him, pressing his forehead into the hollow of Geralt’s throat, his breath humid and unsteady over Geralt’s skin in a way that sends guilt and desire racing up Geralt’s spine.

Jaskier is in a poor state and Geralt is the one who put him there. That he desires Jaskier even now is troubling, so he works quickly to help Jaskier back into his clothes, doing up the laces on Jaskier’s smallclothes with deft fingers and closing the fussy little plackets of his trousers with no more intimacy than necessary.

— but if he presses his cheek to the top of Jaskier’s head, breathing in the way Jaskier smells of skin and sweat and leather and sex, no one can fault him. They’re standing so close and Jaskier’s scent is so very heady.

“Come now,” Geralt says, hand under Jaskier’s elbow. “Let us be gone from this place.”

Jaskier levers himself upright, cheeks red, and shakes his hair from his eyes. He swallows hard and looks as though he might be considering reaching for Geralt again, but makes a show of fussing with his tiny mother-of-pearl buttons instead.

Geralt knows he gives Jaskier too little credit sometimes, but he aches to see the ever-present patina of joy and frivolity rubbed down to the bare steel hiding in Jaskier’s spine.

“I can walk on my own, Geralt,” Jaskier says and puts his back to Geralt without looking back.

*

They make their way into the summer night, Geralt easing down narrow streets half a step behind Jaskier, who picks his way back to the inn in lower Vizima where Roach is stabled.

Jaskier speaks with him only so far as allowing Geralt to pay for the best room and a bath. He hesitates outside the threshold before averting his eyes and shutting the door when Geralt gropes for something to say and comes up empty-handed.

There’s a squat bench outside the room, so Geralt settles on it with worry heavy in his gut. He should leave Jaskier to it, take his kit and go about his business as is befitting a Witcher. There’s no place for him here, where problems are solved by aught other than steel or silver.

He broods for a time, listening to the quiet sounds of splashing — and there’s no denying it, but Jaskier is on the other side of the door, perhaps hurting by Geralt’s own hand and he can hardly abide leaving things on such a discordant note.

Geralt stands restlessly and paces the hall, down and back. The patrons at the bar below take up a round of songs, the tune raucous and off-key. It’s like a physical blow to realize he remembers that it’s one Jaskier penned fireside, trying to make Geralt laugh in a grim, wooded copse after tending Geralt’s wounds with a gentle touch.

He retreats to Jaskier’s door and plants himself in front of it, thinking. He cannot leave things thusly. Geralt has long inferred that Jaskier’s schoolmasters had little investment in sparing their hand when Jaskier stepped out of line, and Geralt fears he has aggravated old wounds.

The only thing staying his hand is the lingering shame for his own desires. His concern for Jaskier’s wellbeing is held in earnest, though its veracity should not surprise him after the challenges they’ve faced together.

But Jaskier — he’d — ah, but he’d had no choice in the matter. If he could but ask. If Jaskier would but give him an answer clearer than the half-formed puzzle he currently possesses, he could be about his way in peace or make amends as it suited them both.

He turns the knob. The door is not latched.

Geralt hesitates in the open doorway for only a second before slipping inside.

Jaskier is inside, fresh from the bath, rubbing his hair dry with a towel. He’s already thoroughly scrubbed and dressed, but still warm and fragrant from the soaps and oils. He looks up at the sound when Geralt closes the door behind him.

“Are you well?” Geralt asks, slowly placing his pack on the floor. Jaskier watches him do it but says nothing. “I had thought. Do you need assistance?”

“I’m well,” Jaskier says, steadfastly looking anywhere except directly at Geralt. He’s standing a bit stiffly, but Geralt is fairly certain he’s not gravely wounded from the way he bends and fetches his discarded clothes to pile near his own bags. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you.”

Geralt clears his throat and asks, against all better judgment, “For what?”

“For saving my tai — oh, um — all my thanks to you, nonetheless. Never mind the how. The bowels of Vizima’s jails are far too damp and this is Attrean silk,” Jaskier says a hundred times more brightly, as though nothing has transpired, and then continues at length about the sad state of Vizima’s penal system.

Geralt is relieved to find Jaskier’s chatter annoyingly effective at banking the untoward heat still brewing in Geralt’s belly — but it returns twofold when Jaskier pauses and bites his lower lip, gazing at Geralt expectantly.

He realizes belatedly that he’s been staring and not listening — and that he has no idea what Jaskier just asked him. “Uh — yes?”

“You don’t even know who the Duchesse du Virnay is, do you?” Jaskier asks, putting on an exaggerated, exasperated expression. “Foolish of me to ever think you had a single ounce of culture. What were you daydreaming of, pray tell? Slaying beasts?”

He’s far too close and too loud and too perfumed, and he flaps his hands at Geralt who, perhaps unwisely, catches him by the wrists.

“You,” Geralt grumbles, because Jaskier’s guess would hold water any other day but this one. “You, you fool bard. Only you and the trouble you’ve caused. No more.”

Jaskier, gape-mouthed and blushing — Lilit’s tits does he drive Geralt mad, and Geralt has been filling his eyes with aught else to keep from noticing — seems to have no quippy counter up his sleeve. He, in fact, seems to be waiting for Geralt to do something, so Geralt releases him and takes a few steps back.

“Right then, ah —” Jaskier’s expression falls and Geralt can’t ascertain why, though he feels as though he’s missed something important.

And then. “Jaskier — you must let me —”

And then. He thinks of it — the slow up-and-down sweep of Jaskier’s gaze over him at regular intervals, the disappointment when Geralt insists he wants nothing. The soft noises he made when Geralt touched what he did not first ask to touch, and his silent and stunning suffering.

It’s a terrible idea to think that they might safely ford the murky river dividing the territory between friends and something more, but once the thought takes root, he cannot rid himself of it.

“Think nothing of it,” Jaskier says with forced cheer. “All in a day’s work for the White Wolf, I’m certain. Slaying beasts, paddling delinquent troubadours — nothing to dwell on.”

“Jaskier!” Geralt hisses, advancing on Jaskier, who retreats until his shoulders hit the wall. “For once in your life, would you just — be quiet? Stop speaking for a single moment and let me care for you?”

Jaskier’s lips part. Geralt can take no more, and Jaskier will not let him get even a fumbling word in edgewise to speak on the matter with clarity. He pushes a thigh between Jaskier’s legs and kisses Jaskier open-mouthed and there’s no hesitation, no artifice, only heat and want and an agile tongue.

Jaskier’s arms are around Geralt’s neck without reservation, his body draped sinuously against Geralt’s torso, and Geralt hauls Jaskier up, up, up. He hoists him by his thighs while Jaskier’s hands knot in Geralt’s hair, ripping free the tie pinning his hair back so that it all comes down in a great curtain.

“Geralt,” Jaskier pleads, half whine half word, clinging to Geralt’s shirt. “Geralt, I’ve wanted this, oh, if only —”

Geralt swallows whatever else he has to say. No good ever comes of dwelling on if only or could have been, when the present comes with a wealth of opportunity.

He grips Jaskier’s thighs, high up, and then demands, “Show me what I’ve done to you,” when Jaskier mewls in surprise, desire twisting like a blade in his gut. “Pull off your trousers and turn around.”

The blush that rises high on Jaskier’s cheeks is immensely becoming. His hands shake when he undoes his laces, but not from fear, and he steps from his clothes unselfconsciously. His shirt hits the floor a moment later, a very welcome addition to the discarded pile of clothing. Geralt can smell the salt-musk scent of his cock as soon as Jaskier frees himself and he’s pleased to see Jaskier is already half hard.

“Are you going to do it again?” Jaskier asks breathlessly as he gives Geralt his bare back, so trusting that Geralt feels like he might burn up from the inside out.

“Not now,” Geralt says, bending to inspect his handiwork. He was as gentle as he could be, but the lashing left Jaskier in a fine state.

The two pale halves of Jaskier’s ass are still deep red, tender from the belt, the deepest edging towards bruise-purple. Geralt caresses them with immense care, relishing the way Jaskier shudders beneath his gentlest touch. “Does it hurt badly?”

“No,” Jaskier lies brazenly, until Geralt squeezes the reddest part of his ass, then quickly confesses, “a bit — gods have mercy, Geralt. But it feels amazing. I thought I was set to humiliate.”

“Then I’ll have you over my knee again if you lie to me again,” he threatens, parting the soft divide between Jaskier’s ass cheeks, where more tender depths await exploration. “Has anyone ever done this to you?”

Geralt looks openly at what he could only glimpse before and knows the sight of Jaskier, undone and disrobed, with his red ass and balls exposed, will sit with him for the rest of his life. He goes down on his knee and presses his face into the dark heat of Jaskier, tasting the warm, clean muscle, the tip of his tongue circling the entrance to Jaskier’s body just once.

“Not — not like this,” Jaskier yelps, hips jerking. “Not in this order. Geralt — please —”

“Please what, Jaskier?” Geralt counters, voice low, barely more than a rasp of desire. He doesn’t recognize the sound of himself.

“Will — oh gods — will you fuck me tonight?” Jaskier begs, one knee buckling when Geralt licks him again, so that Geralt must bear his weight. “Please. I can’t think of anything else now.”

“Should I?” Geralt asks. He will, of course. His own cock is hard and weeping beneath his leathers, and all he can think is how lovely and pink the sweet grip of Jaskier’s ass will look when it’s finally stretched around his cock.

“I’ve never known you to be an evil man,” Jaskier whines, squirming. “Geralt – if you don’t fuck me, I may die.”

“Ah, I suppose I must, if it’s to save your life. But salve first. I won’t have you complaining in the morning,” Geralt says, entirely too aware that his own desires and Jaskier’s begging have made him a soft touch. But not entirely. “In my pack — fetch the green bottle. The one tied with red string. The oil as well. Brown glass, green cap. Mind the rest.”

Jaskier exhales sharply, bared muscles bunching as he rises obediently. Geralt settles on the bed, stripping off his own shirt and taking in the sight of Jaskier rummaging through Geralt’s effects with intent. His hands are trembling as he searches and the smell of him is maddeningly good, but Geralt fists his hands in the quilt and makes himself wait.

The bottles in hand, Jaskier takes mincing steps back towards Geralt. His cock hasn’t flagged, weeping at the tip, and Geralt reaches out once he’s within arm’s length and drags his thumb through the mess, pleased with the strangled, surprised noise that Jaskier makes when Geralt licks his own finger.

Jaskier tastes clean, like salt and skin, and he makes the loveliest of noises at the slightest provocation. There’s something to be said about bedding the sons and daughters of the peerage, Geralt supposes.

He slides his hands up Jaskier’s body from knee to waist; he’s soft in places Geralt has never been soft, wonderfully capable in others, and Geralt is interested in exploring every inch of him with tongue and teeth. Jaskier feels to Geralt like he belongs in another life, that he should belong to someone else that might keep him pampered and safe, and Geralt is fortunate to have the wonder of his jangling, bright, discordant company.

Troublesome to allow himself to want so much from one person. Troubling that he might get it more than once, as intent as Jaskier is on following him into the unknown; habituation is dangerous for his kind.

He could end it here. Turn Jaskier out and damage this fragile, humiliatingly hungry thing beyond repair, blame his indiscretions on a momentary lapse of judgment.

Jaskier sets the salve and oil on the bed and cups Geralt’s face in the cradle of his hands, thumbing across Geralt’s cheeks. “I speak too much and think too little — you speak too little and think too much. Destiny would have grand plans for us, were we not such fools.”

Geralt pulls him close for a roughshod kiss, his heart tripping with warmth, then commands, “On the bed with you. Let me soothe what ails you.”

The first bottle contains a healing salve, pungent and medicinal, and Jaskier gives a muffled sound of protest. He settles on the bed, but is predictably unable to keep his hands to himself.

“This seems unnecessary. I’ve had worse,” Jaskier says.

“No you haven’t.” Geralt pins Jaskier’s legs between his own to keep Jaskier from squirming. “Don’t move. It needs a moment to work.”

Jaskier makes a noise of distress, but Geralt knows a ruse when he sees it, so he places his hand on the nape of Jaskier’s neck to hold him still and waits. When Jaskier slowly goes limp, Geralt knuckles down either side of his spine, working carefully until Jaskier is languid and lovely.

“Who taught you this fine bit of artistry?” Jaskier murmurs from beneath him, heavy lidded and peering as best he can over his shoulder with one blue eye.

“Someone long before you were born,” Geralt murmurs, placing kisses down the length of Jaskier’s spine. It’s not worth considering; a pleasant diversion, no more, and no diversion is necessary with Jaskier’s body warm and willing beneath his own. “I don’t recall.”

“To fleeting, but lovely memories, and my own good fortune that you have them,” Jaskier says. And then far more soberly, which Geralt finds he does not like at all when it means the absence of Jaskier’s usual mischief, “Ah, Geralt. You must think me absurd for wanting this instead of some jewel-bedecked life when you never asked for it.”

“Not absurd,” Geralt admits. Jaskier has shown courage and heart and kindness where he need have none of those things, where none have asked him and none would hold him to task. He slides his hands up either side of Jaskier’s spine, drawing a soft noise of pleasure from him. “Never absurd.”

Brave, he thinks. Lovely. Geralt is not often driven low by sentiment, but Jaskier has brought Geralt’s heart to its knees.

Jaskier clears his throat and steers the subject back to less dangerous rapids. “I am — willing to explore these new opportunities.”

“Mmm.” That they can both agree on. This, Geralt knows. This, at least, is easy for him.

“So, show me what I’m missing, dear Witcher,” Jaskier says, soft and fond.

Geralt can no more resist that invitation than he could stop the seasons from changing. The salve has done its work on the worst of the damage, but Jaskier’s cheeks are still rosy and tender. Ducking his head, Geralt parts Jaskier’s thighs and sets to work educating Jaskier on the finer details of his talents.

Geralt’s tongue finds the places of him that are untouched by the lashing, the tight, secret entrance to his body, and licks until the muscle begins to loosen beneath his tongue.

He presses inside with the very tip and Jaskier cries out into the crook of his arm. His body is so very tight, and if Geralt will be getting his cock into it at all, he has his work cut out for him.

“Oh, I think could die from just this,” Jaskier groans, not so much words as desperate exhalations. “I won’t last long like this.”

“Then don’t,” Geralt murmurs, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he lays open-mouthed kisses on the backs of Jaskier’s thighs.

Geralt settles heavily onto his belly and makes a feast of him, teasing until Jaskier is rutting against the quilt, until he reaches back and grips Geralt by the hair to keep him where he is, until Jaskier finally begs, a half-coherent litany of please and yes and more and Geralt’s name.

At the precipice, he uncorks the bottle of oil and spills it across his hand, smears it over Jaskier’s ass, strokes his balls delicately until Jaskier is deliciously wet. Geralt slips one finger in with no resistance at all and the second without much more effort.

The third is considerably more difficult. Melitele, but it’s going to be a tight fit. Geralt is blessed with more than most, and Jaskier’s grip on his third finger brings Geralt to the edge of doubt that Jaskier might be able to take him at all.

“Geralt, please, have mercy.” Jaskier’s voice is low, rough, nearly a sob. His flanks quiver like a beast run too hard and Geralt climbs to his knees behind him, considering the lovely curve of Jaskier’s spine where it slopes from his ass to the small of his back.

“If I do this now,” Geralt warns, “it may only hurt.”

He twists his fingers, burying all three until Jaskier gives a wordless shout. It isn’t enough. He’ll split Jaskier in twain, and the very thought of it makes his limbs feel heavy and the blood rush to his head.

“Geralt, please,” Jaskier begs again, the scent of him thick with maddening need and, gods help him, Geralt is helpless to his begging and always has been. He slicks up his own cock, generous with it, and pulls Jaskier backwards into his lap, chest-to-back, setting his teeth in the curve of Jaskier’s neck while he lines himself up through Jaskier’s cries of, “yes – please, yes, oh, yes, like that –”

The head of his cock breaches Jaskier’s body and he’s not so certain that his very bones aren’t going to melt away with the blast-furnace intensity of his impulse to fuck up into the warm, willing flesh draped against him. Jaskier reaches back blindly, clinging as best he can, up on his knees but barely able to support himself when Geralt pushes up into the gripping heat of him.

“Good,” he says, mouth against the shell of Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier shivers with each word, lips working in an o of noiseless, senseless bliss, as though all the air’s finally been let out of him. “Good, good, just relax for me. So good – you’ve been so good, Jaskier.”

With Jaskier right where Geralt wants him, Geralt braces and begins to thrust. Slow, deep, steady, angling so that each thrust drives Jaskier upwards, until he’s buried all the way up to his balls in tight muscle and slick flesh.

“Fuck me, gods, yes, Geralt, your cock – I want – oh, I want it –” Geralt drives in hard and bites down on Jaskier’s shoulder and whatever he says melts into a belly-deep moan that Geralt can feel in his own chest.

“Shh,” Geralt soothes; it’s growing late and there are muted voices stirring from sleep from their noise. Geralt is keen to keep this bed for the night, and then perhaps keep Jaskier in it for as long as they’ve coin left for it. “Don’t wake the whole inn.”

“Oh please, Geralt, I can’t, it’s too good,” Jaskier whines, muffled, nails digging into Geralt’s skin where he reaches for purchase.

Geralt closes a gentle hand around Jaskier’s throat, only a suggestion of pressure, and slows the roll of his hips, each punishing thrust a new layer of pleasure for them both.

Geralt could throw Jaskier down and ride him into the bed all night, if he only had a dram of self-control left, but it’s been too long and he’s done too much, so he wraps his hand around Jaskier’s neglected cock and begins to jerk him in time with his hips.

His thumb slides over the rosy, wet head of Jaskier’s cock thrice, four times, five, and Jaskier cries out and spills into Geralt’s palm. He smears it down the length of Jaskier, cupping his balls with a sticky palm, and nuzzles the nape of Jaskier’s neck until he follows in a blinding whiteout of pleasure.

When the world slides back into focus, the first thing he feels is Jaskier breathing hard against him. Smells the scent of their sex, the sticky-clinging heat of their skin where they’re pressed together, the thunder of Jaskier’s heart under his palm as it gradually slows.

Geralt eases out of Jaskier with a low groan and maneuvers them onto the bed. A minor miracle that Jaskier is silent, either stunned or too tired to speak. Geralt curls around him, closing his eyes with a rumbling, contented sound that starts low and works its way out involuntarily.

Jaskier draws a breath as if to speak, then exhales. Geralt listens to his heartbeat for a few more breaths, then prompts, “If you’ve something to say, you’ve a captive audience. Speak now.”

“It’s nothing important,” Jaskier murmurs, stretching an arm over his head. Geralt can hear the smile in his voice, and then the query. “I only hope that the future holds many satisfying things to keep me too busy to suffer the exploits as we endured today.”

“You seem very satisfied, for someone who was paddled in front of his liege lord like a schoolboy caught stealing sweets,” Geralt mumbles, nuzzling into Jaskier’s hair. He’s warm and feels good and Jaskier is both familiar and strange to Geralt. His lovers rarely linger.

“Ah, well, in true parabolic form, it was at your hand that a deeper truth was revealed,” Jaskier murmurs. He puts a hand on Geralt’s cheek and Geralt opens his eyes, then his mouth, for the kiss that follows, easy and intimate.

“Shall I be subject to lessons and literature and the dramas of destiny now?” Geralt teases. He feels himself stir again, and there’s a mess to clean up, but he’s too content to move for either – for now, at least.

“I’ll save that some other evening,” Jaskier says, his smile blazing. Geralt rolls onto his back and hauls Jaskier against him, the sound and smell and thought of him nearly drowning out the world outside their room.

Always ahead, the path beckons, but now Geralt might rest for a spell – and then perhaps again, somewhere beyond the city walls, on cold nights or warm, with Jaskier humming tunes that make the very stars seem to shine more brightly. He closes his eyes and lets himself feel certain of this small joy, Jaskier’s fingers combing through his hair.


End file.
